Perfect Love
by Mendai Decovrii
Summary: Sam might go seeking it other places, but no matter where he goes, what he does Perfect Love is always where it was, waiting to take him back. Sam's POV. No Wincest.


It's a funny thing, perfect love. It may be true, what Lennon said, that _all you need is love_, but it's definitely not true that we always know it. And I meant that equivocation: some don't experience it and the rest of us forget it's enough.

'Cause the lucky ones do find perfect love. We wake up some day and look into this person's eyes and see something shining there that takes our breath away and realize that we've finally found the thing we've been searching for our whole lives. Perfect love. And we want to positively bask in it. _I found it_, we laugh. _I found perfect love_. We soak ourselves in its presence; tingling with its potency; relishing its delight; swearing to ourselves, to our lover, that we'll never leave, never want anything else as long as we live. _Blissful satisfaction,_ we call it. _Finally content, _we call ourselves, _forever and ever. _

But fickle foolish friends that we are, we forget these sweet promises. We still appreciate the reassurance of perfect love, but we seek it someplace else, too. _I know my lover loves me_, our hearts whisper_, but what about these others? Will no one else love me, too? _And perhaps it is greed. Perhaps vanity. Or maybe it's just being human. But we forget the perfect love we have received, forget that it's all we used to want, all we've ever needed, all we'll ever need. We stand in the lover's presence, giving lip service to our adoration, but glancing around, meeting the eyes of all those around us, hoping, expecting, demanding that someone else provide this love, as well. After all, if we have received this love from the lover, surely we deserve it.

And we drift. Because we're human and we see only what we want to see, at first. As we seek love in other faces, we think we find it. Think we've found another perfect love. We weight our costs – one paltry love – and view our benefits – a million blissful companions – and pack our bags for brighter things and better futures and more perfect loves. It never is real love, though. It promises us good things, but it is vain and fleeting. And we're left with nothing but consuming fires burning up our hopes against a midnight sky and we wonder why we ever left, what we'll ever do. For we've turned our backs on love. Can expect it no longer.

But such is the nature of love – perfect, blissful, patient love – that when you're follies have turned to ashes and your hopes to tears it's suddenly beside you, strong arms looping themselves through your belt, steady legs holding you up, gentle hands lowering you to your bed, and those kind eyes shining compassion, even as you sob for the lesser things.

And, oh gosh, but Dean, thank you.

A/N: Hey guys! I feel like that little whatever it was requires a bit of explanation. If you're the sort of person who doesn't want to hear what the composer _meant _his lyrics to be, then you should probably not read this ;)

I'm almost unsure of whether I should be posting "story" to , just because it has a very tenuous link to the Supernatural story. It was originally meant to be written from Sam's perspective: how he always has Dean's love, Dean's perfect love, and that should be enough, actually, but he always forgets that and goes looking for love in other places. I'm hoping that that was sufficiently clear to you, and that you can appreciate it as such. But I found as I was writing, that the story took a life of its own, and became more my story than Sam's. I tried to preserve the fan fiction nature of it with imagery from Supernatural at the end (fire, belt loops, gentle hands are all tropes in Supernatural ff, I'm sure you all know ;) as well as the last line thanking Dean. But you deserve to know that despite my best intentions, it's more about me and my Lover (our Lover) than Sam and his.

Also, I should note that when I use to word lover, there is _**nothing**_ sexual implicated there. It's my Christian upbringing influencing my language, not Wincest, I swear. In Christianity, we refer to God as our "lover" at times, and it means only "one who loves" not "my illicit bed fellow". That's the main sense, _the only sense_ in which I was using it.

Thanks guys! Any reviews are appreciated, as always 3


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